Morning Mist and Silver Sun
by StarSpray
Summary: A collection of drabbles and drabble series. Chapter Thirty Two: New beginnings in the Second Age
1. Sundering

_Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Professor Tolkien; I'm just borrowing._

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Choosing**

They stared at each other, and then at the Maia before them, identical faces wide-eyed with surprise. The messenger of the Valar inclined his head, and retreated, leaving them to decide their fate.

After a moment of silence: "There is no real choice, is there?" Confidence rang in his voice – they were twins, too alike to choose something different.

"Best give it a little thought, brother."

A nightingale sang an ancient song as the thoughtful twin wandered away with shoulders hunched. His brother watched after, startled, as everything he thought he knew began to crumble, like Beleriand into the Sea.

**Watching**

Gil-galad watched them avoid each other – Elros choosing to spend his time in the shipyards and Elrond immersing himself in the plans for their new city – and shook his head. They would be sundered beyond the Circles of Arda all too soon, and yet neither seemed to acknowledge it.

That evening he searched for Elrond. But no one had seen him. "Perhaps by the shore," Círdan said distractedly. He bent over plans for ships as Elros tallied figures nearby, avoiding Gil-galad's gaze.

Footprints in the sand led him to Elrond, sitting alone, head bent as tears shook his slender frame.

**Reconciling**

She saw them together on the beach, so alike in face and posture – arms crossed, eyes trained on the sea – that she could hardly tell them apart. They spoke too softly for her to hear over the waves that washed over their feet, but it was not difficult to guess at the conversation.

Did Elrond know, she wondered, that Elros' nature was but half the reason he had chosen the Fate of Men? She looked down at the delicate silver ring on her finger, and remembered tenderly whispered words –

"_One lifetime with you is worth more than a thousand alone."_

**Sailing**

He stood at the bow of his ship, foremost in the great fleet that carried the Edain to Andor, the island gift of the Valar. He could see his father shining as a beacon over the horizon. He sailed the skies alone every night, Elros had been told.

Elros was far from alone; he was surrounded by his crew and a fleet of ships full of Edain, and his bride stood beside him, eyes alight with the reflection of starlight.

But the mirror of his spirit remained behind in Middle-earth, alone. So how could he not feel the same loneliness?

**Watching**

Stars blazed in the sky, reflecting on the Sea so Elrond could not tell where one ended and the other began. Eärendil hung in the West, a beacon for the ships of the Edain. They set sail that morning, and long ago vanished beyond the horizon.

Even Elros' footprints had been washed away by the sea.

"Why not sail to Valinor?" Gil-galad had asked. "Your mother is there."

"Because I have to stay here."

"Why?"

"My heart tells me I must."

And so he stood alone on the shore, watching the stars that led the last of his family away.


	2. Madness

She bowed her head as her sons stood, one by one, to bind themselves to Fëanáro's foolish Oath. Their eyes blazed in the torchlight, but none brighter than their father's. He was driven by rage, grief, and greed – this Oath was madness, but he refused to see it.

Later came the question. "Are you coming?"

"No, Fëanáro."

His dark eyes blazed with anger. "You would abandon me _now_, Nerdanel?"

She refused to rise to his bait, to get angry. "I will not be a part of this madness."

"Then you are no wife of mine," he snarled.

"So be it."


	3. Meeting

She had dwelt in Doriath many months before she saw him. He was tall and silver-haired like Thingol, but less proud.

"His name is Celeborn," she was told. "He is kin to the king, but prefers the forest to the caves."

And twilight to Anor and Ithil, she learned when they spoke. And his laughter was like leaves in the breeze – refreshing and free.

Then he asked her name.

"Artanis."

A beam of evening sunlight found them, and Celeborn shook his head. "You are no mere noblewoman," he said. "Galadriel I name you, for none shine as radiantly as you."


	4. Puppy

"_What_ is _that?_"

With an excited bark, the puppy wiggled its way from Tyelkormo's arms and ran to Fëanáro to plant over-large paws on his legs. It barked again, seeming to grin as its eyes sparkled.

"He is a hound, Atar," Tyelkormo said.

"Yes, but why is it _here?_" Visions of shattered jewels and his workshop in shambles played before Fëanáro's mind's eye like a nightmare.

A delighted squeal from Curufinwë interrupted them as the child ran into the room to wrap his chubby arms around the dog. "Puppy! Tyelko has puppy!"

Fëanáro sighed. "Just keep out of my workshop!"


	5. Sunrise

It came gradually, a gentle light shooing away the shadows beneath the trees. Unnerved, Elves climbed the tallest trees they could find, until their gazes swept over the canopy of Doriath, dark trees stretching as far as even Elven eyes could see. And then they turned their eyes upward.

The stars were fading, the sky brightening to grey and then to blue. And then it appeared – a golden light far brighter than any star, bringing warmth and colorful brilliance with its rays.

"A new age is beginning," said their Maia queen as her daughter danced through bright new meadow flowers.


	6. Luthien

_Dance_

It almost seemed that she danced before she walked. Giggling, she would twirl around before reaching up to him. "Dance with me, Ada, please?"

He could never say no to his daughter, and so they would spin around beneath the trees and silver stars of Varda. She would laugh and shriek as he tossed her high in the air, and her long dark hair would seem for a moment like the dark wings of a nightingale.

"What a beautiful child," the other Elves said. "Already the most beautiful of all the Eldar!"

Melian watched them dance with a secret smile.

_Magic_

"Naneth, what is magic?" Wide eyes of silver grey squinted as Lúthien wrinkled her nose in thought.

"Where did you hear of magic, my daughter?"

"The Naugrim, Naneth. They were speaking of you and your magic."

The Maia Queen laughed gently and lifted her daughter to her lap. "The Naugrim speak of what they do not understand," she said. "What they see as strange and magical is but part of the nature given me by Ilúvatar before the beginning of Time and music."

Lúthien nodded slowly, then asked brightly, "Will you tell me of the music that woke the world?"

_Mist_

She stood in the shadows and listened as Thingol and Melian spoke quietly and worriedly of Círdan's defeat in the West, his people all but driven into the Sea. "We will not have victory in open battle," Thingol said.

"Send for all who will come to dwell here," Melian said, "and I will gird our kingdom with mists and shadows impenetrable."

"So it will be."

And Lúthien watched as Menegroth swelled as her mother's power encircled them, silver mists disguising paths and weaving a perilous maze no enemy could ever navigate, lest he be more powerful than Melian the Maia.


	7. Seasons

_Spring_

Flowers sprung from rain damp soil as the bare, light feet of Lúthien passed. She leapt and spun beneath the ancient trees of Doriath. The sun shone with renewed warmth as frigid nights grew short.

Daeron watched the daughter of Thingol as his own fingers danced on the strings of his harp. His music was the rhythm and beat to which she swayed, and her nightingale voice – sweeter than honey and smoother than silk! – sang of life and green growth.

Spotted fawns watched the minstrel and the princess from shadowy brush, and all around Menegroth the Elves sang delighted songs.

_Summer_

In bright blue skies the sun shone hot, and in the fields grain grew golden, and fruits in the orchard swelled while meadow-flowers swayed in the breeze that carried their scent far and wide.

But beneath the trees it was dark and cool, and the air smelled fresh, perfumed with fresh soil. Birds nested and sang to the music of gurgling brooks…

And Treebeard sought his lovely Fimbrethil with her lovely golden hair, to extol the beauty of the forest and listen to her proclaim the loveliness of her garden, while they met in the meadows between, where Entings played.

_Autumn_

It was when the nights grew cold after warm, sunny days filled with red and golden leaves that fires were stoked and harps were brought out so that stories could be told to the rhythm of the waves on the shore. "Recount for us the glory of hidden Gondolin under Turgon's rule."

"Sing for valiant Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower."

"What was Menegroth like when Thingol and Melian reigned?"

"How did Beren snare the heart of Lúthien?"

Amid the falling leaves by River Sirion, Elves once of Doriath and Gondolin sang their bittersweet memories to the wind.

_Winter_

_They_ came with the first snows, the Kinslayers and Jewel-seekers, to stain the fresh drifts red with the blood of those who had already lost too much.

She saw them from the nursery window, and recalled their faces from Doriath before she'd fled. Behind her, her sons huddled together, crying softly in their fright – sounds to break a mother's heart.

To flee again was her only option, to draw the Kinslayers away from Sirion, from her sons. She knelt swiftly and kissed her babies. "I love you. Be strong!" Her mother had said the same in Doriath.

Then she ran.


	8. Balrogs

_Desperation_

Smoke and fire and shadow encompassed his whole world, and the roar of the Balrog drowned out the terrified screams of women and children. He swung his sword with a desperate cry as a flaming whip descended –

And steel bit deep into fire and shadow, while fire devoured once-gleaming armor and once-fair skin. With a howl of helpless rage the Balrog fell.

Those watching cried out in horror as the noble warrior breathed his last breath beneath the dying fury of Morgoth's beast.

Thus fell Ecthelion of the Fountain as he contended against Gothmog, lord among the Balrogs of Morgoth.

_Sacrifice_

Golden hair shimmered in the sunlight as he leapt from the precipice. "Gondolin!" he cried, raising his sword as the monster before him raised its whip of fire. It stumbled backwards as they collided, the sword plunging deep into shadow and smoke.

And they fell, mighty lord of Gondolin and monster of death, both screaming in agony as the cliffs above shrank against the darkening sky.

Then the eagles came, driving away the orcs, and bearing gently up the broken, blackened body of the golden warrior to be buried with honor, and tears of fallen Gondolin watered his lonely grave.


	9. Inheritance

_Vengeance_

Ithil was rising when they returned. Lúthien sat with little Elwing on her knee as Beren set the Nauglamír upon the table. The children stared wide-eyed at the Silmaril that lit the other gems like many-colored flames.

Thingol had been avenged, but alas that the Dwarves' gift of friendship to Finrod Felagund had also been the cause of such strife! And now Doriath was dimmed, and Melian was gone from Middle-earth.

"The people of Doriath need a leader," Dior said, standing tall by the door, having already the bearing of a king.

They departed only days later, never to return.

_Tidings_

The messenger from the South entered the chamber without a word, carrying with reverence a carefully wrapped package. Dior took it reluctantly, knowing already what it was and what it meant.

Once alone, he set the package on the desk and untied the twine with trembling fingers. The paper fell away to reveal the mingled light of lost Telperion and Laurelin caught in smooth, flawless crystal. The other gems of the Nauglamír flared like many colored stars.

Lúthien Tinúviel and Beren Camlost walked no more in Tol Galen, and to Dior's eyes even the light of the Silmaril was dimmed.

_Flight_

She screamed when the door flung open, but it was only Nimloth, bearing the shimmering Nauglamír. "Elwing, come!" she ordered, and clasping hands they ran down empty corridors. Far away Elwing could hear screaming, and she smelled fire.

They came to a small closet, and Nimloth slipped the necklace into a pack, and secured a cloak around Elwing's shoulders. "Take this and go. Celeborn is waiting for you at the west gate."

"But Naneth!"

"I love you. Be strong, Elwing." Nimloth kissed her, and pushed her forward.

Clutching the Silmaril, Elwing ran. She looked back only once; Nimloth was gone.


	10. Theater

He finally gave in to curiosity and slipped into the back of the famous Globe, to hear whether the Lord Chamberlain's Men were truly as talented as was said. They were to perform a new play, according to the excited whispers among the audience of Londoners. He only hoped it would be worth the price for a seat.

A hush fell over the crowd as the actors took the stage. They immediately swept the audience from the hot summer day in London to a frigid winter night in Denmark, and into a tale of intrigue, oaths sworn to slain fathers, murder, insanity, and vengeance.

For Maglor Fëanorion, it was particularly chilling.

"_To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer – "_

To linger and watch the world roll on, burdened by regret and bloody memory, wandering the shores forever alone while the world changes and Men rise and multiply and forget the Firstborn –

"_To die – to sleep – "_

To fall, to leap in madness and despair, screaming, burning, until the fiery depths of the earth swallow body and voice, and shining, hallowed Jewel –

And at the end: _"The rest is silence."

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Note: The dialogue in italics is quoted from Shakespeare's __Hamlet_.


	11. Ghosts

They came to him each year, luminescent specters with dark blood splashed across their faces. Fëanor glowered at him, fire still smoldering in his eyes. His brothers only stared, or raged at him with silent curses. Maedhros was the worst, hands clenching and unclenching – empty and scarred, just like his.

Then there was Dior. Nimloth. Elves from Aqualondë and Sirion, all bloodstained and blank-faced. He ran, but everywhere he turned, they were there. He closed his eyes, but still their blank gazes burned him.

Meanwhile, mortal children shrieked with laughter on Trick-or-Treat night.

Alone in the haunted dark, Maglor screamed.


	12. Water

Written for the LJ _tolkien_weekly _community "Water" challenge series.

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**Winter Play  
**_Ice and Snow_

Some of the trees lining the Esgalduin still bore scars from the Dwarves' battleaxes. Dark, bare branches reached toward the bright sky, missing the nightingales whose voices had once filled the forest with song.

But among the drifts of ice and snow on the ground ran children, whose playful shrieking was less delicate, but infinitely more lively than nightingales.

Giggling breathlessly, Elwing fell back into a snowdrift and stared up at the cloudless sky. "I love snow," she told Elurín when he fell beside her.

"I wish Ada could play with us."

But Ada was King, and always busy now…

**More Questions than Answers**  
_Puddles_

Steady rain turned the world a gloomy shade of grey. The path was more puddles than ground, and Elwing thought everyone's clothes must be more mud than cloth by now. The bag holding the Nauglamír was heavy in Elwing's hands.

And in her mind there were still more questions than answers. "Where are Nana and Ada?" she asked Lady Galadriel. "And Eluréd and Elurín? Where are we going?" Galadriel never answered. Her face was set and hard, like she was angry.

"We are going to the sea!" Lindir told her, smiling. But his bright cheer was more forced than real.

**Memories  
**_Fountains_

"Tell me about it. Gondolin."

"It was _glorious_. White and shining in the sun, with fountains glittering in the squares…"

Idril saw them together on the beach, heads bent together as they spoke in half-whispers, like everything shared was a secret. She saw Elwing hide a shy smile behind a curtain of dark hair, and Eärendil's gaze strayed over the sea as he remembered the beauty of hidden Gondolin.

"Now your turn. Tell me of Doriath."

"It was beautiful, all green and gold and white beside the Esgalduin, where elanor and niphredil bloomed. My grandfather met my grandmother dancing there…"

**Learning**  
_River_

Eärendil hoisted Elros onto his hip as Elrond clambered onto a chair. Elwing paused, smiling, in the doorway to watch as he answered all the questions the boys had about ships, while they stared in fascination at the plans scattered across the table. Elros in particular wanted to know everything there was about sailing.

Later, Elrond brought Elwing a map. "The world is so _big_," he informed her solemnly and wide-eyed.

She smiled wistfully and traced the dark line that was the River Sirion with a finger. "Yes," she agreed, remembering the long journeys of her childhood. "Very big indeed."

**Swimming**  
_Lake_

There were no lakes near the mouths of River Sirion, no calm, glassy mirrors of the sky, glittering surprises in the midst of cool shady forests. Only the river itself, and the sea, always moving, rushing, crashing against stones and sand. Elwing had learned to swim in a lake; her father taught her and her brothers.

But Elrond and Elros learned to swim in the Sea, and she always feared the undertow would sweep them away, though Eärendil laughed at her worries. "They'll be _fine_."

But when he disappeared out to sea, she kept the boys on shore, building sandcastles.

**Lost**  
_The Sea_

Cold pierced her very bones, and her nose and lungs burned with salty water as they longed for air, and she tumbled down, down into the depths of the Sea, dark but for the blinding, brilliant light of the cursed Jewel for which she had lost everything—her family, her homes, her _sons_…

And just when she thought she could not survive another moment, strange power encased her, and she rose with the Silmaril as a beacon on her breast, breaking through the waves on wide white wings.

Sirion burned behind her. Despairing, Elwing turned West, where somewhere Vingilot waited.


	13. Tangled Web

Written for the LJ _tolkien_weekly _community "Tangled Web" challenge series.

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**Better than Before  
**_Knit_

Maedhros stared at the bandaged stump where once his hand had been. Beneath the cloth, flesh and skin slowly worked to knit together over his wrist in tough scar tissue. But there was no replacing his right hand, and he had to relearn everything now—writing, swordsmanship; even _eating_ was a clumsy endeavor.

His gaze strayed to his left hand, still pale and thin—like the rest of him—from his long captivity. It rested on the table, almost waxy in the candlelight.

He rose and picked up his sword. He would relearn _everything_, and he would learn it _better_.

**No Time for Songs**  
_Weave_

In his imagination, the harp's chords wove seamlessly with the delicate notes of a flute as well as soft Elven voices.

In reality, it was only his lone harp to set the melody, and his own weary, wavering voice to whisper laments to the stars – and they were his only willing audience. In Endor his brothers preferred the macabre song and dance of swords and blood to the strings of a harp, and battle cries were their hymns.

A warning call came from a sentry. Maglor tucked his harp away and rose with his sword to meet the approaching orcs.

**We Should Go Hunting  
**_Embroider_

Celegorm fingered the embroidered arrows on his sleeve as he leaned against the doorframe. Curufin stood at the mirror, carefully braiding his hair. The scowl on his face reminded Celegorm of their father.

Things had not been going their way since Finrod's departure. "We should go hunting," Celegorm said. He needed to get away from stone walls and stony faces. Curufin grunted. He had been arguing with his son. Again. Celebrimbor was more like their cousins than a scion of Fëanor.

Within the hour they departed. What they hunted, neither knew…

Until out of tree-shadows rose Doriath's impossibly beautiful princess.

**Understanding  
**_Spin_

The soft whirr of the wheel and spindle continued as Caranthir entered the room. Haleth inclined her head respectfully, but did not cease her spinning to rise. And he did not ask her to. Watching her long, calloused fingers guide the wool, he said, "My offer still stands. Your people will be protected in Thargelion."

"I thank you for it," she said. Dark grey eyes met Caranthir's, shining with quiet pride. "But we wish for our own lands. But we will remember your kindness, my Lord Caranthir."

"And the Noldor will ever recall the valor of the people of Haleth."

**At the Last  
**_Stitch_

It was like a stitch in his side from running too long, but worse. Far worse. All around him, blood darkened snowdrifts, foamed in the angry waves, gushed from his veins. The eyes of the fallen stared unseeing at the sky. Smoke seared his nose and mouth as Sirion burned.

But it didn't matter. None of it. Not the city. Not the cursed Oath. He was dead already; his other half lay scant feet away, still clutching his broken sword in the white-knuckled grip of death.

He stumbled, coughed, tasted blood.

Námo was calling. Falling with a sigh, Ambarussa answered.


	14. Missing Them

Written for the LJ _tolkien_weekly _community "Tangled Web" challenge series.

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**Missing Them  
**_Dye/Die_

The red clay dyed her hands pale pink, like old bloodstains, she thought. Somehow that seemed fitting, though she herself had not been in Alqualondë. Carefully, she molded the clay into the form she wanted. A tangle of arms and legs; smiling faces.

Her sons as children, in another lifetime. All had died for their Oath, except her Macalaurë, who wandered now alone on the shore. So said those who had come across the Sea. They said his laments echoed in the waves, but she never heard them, hard though she listened. Perhaps they could not be heard in Aman...


	15. Memories

_Written for _tolkien_weekly's _Hairdressing challenge series.  
Many thanks to **ladyelleth** for nominating _Songwriting_ for the 2011 MEFAs, where it won an Honorable Mention & Smaug's Treasure!_

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**Dusty Heirloom**  
_Comb_

It had been a long time since he had gone through the oldest of boxes and trunks stored away in Imladris. Many belonged to Elves long since departed. Elrond knelt before a dusty drunk he recognized as his own.

Inside were papers – letters, mostly – and assorted small items, brought from Lindon that he had not needed at the time. He picked up a small comb, delicately carved with roses. Someone had told him once it had belonged to Elwing, brought out of the ruin of Doriath.

He ran his fingers over the carvings and wondered what Elwing was doing then.

**.  
**

**Sandcastles**  
_Curl_

Elrond found the twins asleep in the garden, curled up on the grass beside each other having exhausted themselves in play. The sight reminded him of another pair of twins who often napped on the pale sand on the shores of the sea after building sandcastles taller than themselves.

They had pretended the sandcastles were watchtowers, looking out for their father's return from sea. Elros always wanted to swim, but when their father was gone their mother bade them stay ashore, wary of the wild, raw strength of the waves.

Elrond hadn't understood why, then. He thought he did now.

**.  
**

**Songwriting**  
_Cut_

Scowling, Lindir scribbled something onto his parchment. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond could see that he had cut several stanzas out of a song he had been slaving over for months. The twins peered over the table at the parchment, then quickly vanished when Lindir looked at them sharply.

He was always short tempered when songs were not coming along as he wanted. Elrond sat back with his scroll and sighed, remembering Maglor shut away for days at a time, writing songs that always sounded like the sea. Perhaps they still did, on some long forgotten shore…

**.  
**

**Preservation**  
_Condition_

The heavy tome sat on the table, dusty and cracked, but in surprisingly good condition. "What is it?" Celebrían asked, resting a hand on Elrond's shoulder as she leaned forward to peer at it.

"A collection of songs and stories from Gondolin and Doriath," Elrond said, "recorded by Tuor before he set sail." The book's journey from Sirion to Imladris had not been an easy one. Elrond was reluctant to handle it, lest it be damaged. "Lindir has volunteered to make copies."

Once that was done this precious book would be carefully put away, to last many years to come.

**.  
**

**Feathered Princess  
**_Plait_

Giggling, Arwen spun around, arms flung out to match her skirts and hair, which she had carefully, if slightly clumsily, plaited white feathers and golden flowers into. Elrond laughed as Elrohir swept her off her feet to toss her into the air.

Grey eyes and hair like shadows. When she wore blue, everyone said she looked like Melian's daughter, their most beautiful princess reborn among the waterfalls of Imladris. She even danced like Tinúviel.

But as he watched her soar for a moment with feathers in her hair, Elrond was reminded not of Lúthien's famous grace, but Elwing in flight.

**.  
**

**Departure**  
_Parting_

"You worry too much," Celebrían laughed as she kissed him goodbye. Arwen skipped over to embrace him. "It is high time Arwen traveled beyond Imladris."

Elrond agreed, but he knew also the dangers lurking in the wild. Orcs and trolls and other things with no love for Elves. He hugged Arwen, and then she was mounting her palfrey, and she and Celebrían waved gaily as they departed with their escort, across the bridge and away toward Lothlórien.

Partings were always hard. He knew better, of course, but somehow he always ended up thinking of those who had never come back.


	16. Rainbow

**A Trap of Their Own Making**  
_Red_

They had been looking toward the east, for the sky to brighten gently with the rising of the sun. Instead, with a cry, someone pointed to the north, where harsh red light was growing – causing even the Valacirca to fade from the sky.

Turgon stared, wishing desperately to wake up from this nightmare. They could not get out, caught in a trap of their own making.

The ring of swords drawn filled the air. Turgon grasped the hilt of Glamdring with white knuckles; he would fall, but orcs would fear the very mention of Foe Hammer for Ages to come!

**.**

**Don't Look Back**  
_Orange_

Flames leapt from the towers behind them as they dashed unnoticed by Morgoth's hordes to the secret way out through the mountains, to freedom. Eärendil stared over his father's shoulder at the black smoke and bright orange flames that spread unbelievably quickly through his home.

"Don't look," Tuor said, turning his face away from the city. "Don't look back."

"Where are we going?" Eärendil asked. They passed into the tunnel, dark except for hurriedly lit torches. Their shadows loomed large and distorted on the walls.

His father's face and hair were smeared with soot. "South," he said, "to the sea."

**.**

**No Time to Mourn**  
_Yellow_

He heard later that yellow flowers blossomed on the grave, a small patch of sunshine amid the dreary grey mountain crags. But that day it was just a mound of dirt beneath which lay one of his heroes. Eärendil buried his face in his mother's skirts as someone sang a tearful lament for Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower.

But they couldn't linger. Smoke billowed into the air from burning Gondolin as Idril pulled Eärendil away down the mountain path, Tuor leading them. There would be time later to write songs about Glorfindel's desperate bravery against the Balrog.

**.**

**Pine Towers**  
_Green_

The air was subdued throughout the makeshift camp. Someone wept, and a child's hungry cry was swiftly hushed. Tuor stood beneath a fir tree tall as one of Gondolin's towers (but he pushed that thought away; he couldn't think of Gondolin now). He crushed its dark green needles in his fingers and inhaled their pungent scent, relieved to abandon – at least for a moment – the acrid smell of blood and smoke that clung to them all.

He looked up again and thought not of towers but of masts, ropes, and sails, of ships, as the wind blew through the branches.

**.**

**They Found Them**  
_Blue_

They found the Doriathrim beneath a clear, bright blue sky, in the midst of turning an encampment into a home. Idril found her cousin with her silver-haired lord and plans for building. She was surprised, at first, before remembering word of Dior's fall brought to Gondolin by the eagles.

The Gondolindrim joined with the craftsmen of Doriath to begin building a city. Idril watched her son coax shy, dark Elwing out into the sunshine. Fate lay heavily upon them both, as they joined hands to play, the only two half-Elven to walk the earth, though neither of them knew it.

**.**

**All for This**  
_Indigo_

"Why are your people here?" Eärendil asked Elwing as they explored the mostly-complete house where she would live with Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

She looked at him with big, sad eyes. "They came and killed everyone," she said. "We had to run. Lindir said they came for this." Elwing reached into a trunk and pulled out a carefully wrapped package. She lifted the cloth away to reveal a necklace of shining gemstones, from bright red to the deepest indigo, lit with clear fire from the Jewel set in the center, shining like a star. "It was all for this."

**.**

**They'll Live Longer**  
_Violet_

The building of a city was no place for children, so as spring woke they built sandcastles on the beach under Idril's watchful eye, mimicking the builders just visible over the sand dunes.

Then one morning Eärendil ran outside to have Elwing drag him towards the forest, away from the Sea. "Look!" she said, dragging him into the shade. Daffodils and violets greeted them, a burst of color among the dead leaves of past summer, like bright sunshine and twilight sky.

Eärendil bent to pick one, but Elwing stopped him. "Leave them," she said.

"Why?"

"They'll live longer this way."


	17. Watcher by the Water

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's Summer Sports challenge series._

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**Water by the Water**  
_Swimming_

He watched them from the rocks that hid swollen tide pools. Families with children had come to the shore that day, basking in Anor's warmth, swimming in the waves, and building castles out of sand. The children shrieked and the waves, while parents kept a watch.

None of them noticed him. On this bright afternoon no one was interested in shadows, or ragged shades of the distant past, long forgotten by Men as they thrived on the present.

Only sometimes did someone find him, drawn to the evening shadows beside the sea by the music he still took refuge in.


	18. Wide Eyed and Wonder Filled

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's Summer Sports challenge series._

* * *

**Wide-Eyed and Wonder-Filled**  
_Archery_

There had been a time when he'd absolutely no interest in archery, preferring to carve himself flutes or to work on his Runes.

Of course, no one used them anymore, unless there were still Dwarves ducked away deep in a mountain somewhere. And he had to feed himself somehow.

So "Darren" spent the bright summer afternoons at a summer camp teaching children how to hold a bow properly. And in the starlit evenings by the campfire, Daeron delighted them all with his music, songs older than the sun and moon. It was good to have a wide-eyed, wonder-filled audience again.

**.**

**Keeping Him Here**  
_Swordplay/Defense_

Daeron lounged in the shade of a tree and watched the older campers eagerly prepare for their next activity. They called it fencing, having taken the art of swordplay and turned it into a sport.

Not that Men needed swords to defend themselves anymore, he reflected. Or bows, for that matter. Morgoth and Sauron were no more, but their influence lived still in the hundreds of ways Men found to take each other's lives.

Sometimes he wondered what kept him on these shores. But then he would see a child with Lúthien's starry eyes, and couldn't bring himself to leave.


	19. Faces

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's _faces_ challenge series._

* * *

**.  
**

**A Smile to Die For**  
_Smile_

Grief and hardship and long travels had worked hard to age him before his time, Lúthien thought. She watched him from the tree shadows, watched him watch the river and the flowers, and scan the trees for a glimpse of her. She remembered the desperate _something_ in his voice when he called her Tinúviel.

Curiosity warred with caution. He was a stranger, and a Man. But how was it that he was so much younger than she, and yet seemed older?

Then she stepped into the sunshine. A brilliant smile transformed his face, stealing away the years, and her heart.

**.**

**Across a Crowded Room**  
_Wink_

He stood across the room from her, speaking with Daeron and Finrod. Artanis sipped her wine and pretended to listen to her companions, but really she was watching Celeborn, Thingol's kinsman. His silver hair glimmered like Melian's pools in the lamplight, and his laughter echoed among the pillars.

Then he caught her gaze with eyes blue as the sea in high summer, and winked. Artanis immediately averted her gaze, blushing. Blushing! She, proud daughter of Finarfin, was _blushing!_

Lúthien laughed like a nightingale as Celeborn crossed the room. "Lady Galadriel," he said with a smile, "will you dance with me?"

**.**

**Child's Play**  
_A Raised Eyebrow_

She found him muddy and out of breath from laughter, beneath a pile of particularly rambunctious children. Idril raised an eyebrow as the children scattered and Tuor sat up. He grinned brightly up at her, red-faced and looking absolutely _nothing_ like Ulmo's blessed messenger. "Good afternoon, my lady," he said.

His stature belied his youth, Idril realized suddenly. How strange Men were!

She smiled down at him. "Good afternoon. It seems you have been defeated."

"Utterly," he agreed. "As it should be, since I was playing the Balrog." Idril bit her lip to stifle a giggle, and his smile widened.

**.**

**He Meant Well**  
_Pull a Face_

Eärendil came running from the shore, flushed, salt-crusted, and dripping, but smiling triumphantly. "For you, Elwing!" he announced, holding out his hand. In his palm sat a pearl, round and white and gleaming in the sunshine.

Nimloth had worn pearls, ancient gifts from Círdan's people, woven in her hair and strung with emeralds around her neck. Elwing could remember them glinting red in the torchlight the night Doriath had fallen.

She pulled a face to hide her sudden tears. "You reek of fish," she said, and fled over the grassy dunes, startling a flock of pale grey gulls into flight.

**.**

**Race to Courtship**  
_Deadpan_

Dior kept his face utterly deadpan as his mother, laughing in her nightingale way, gently pushed him forward. Nimloth felt her kinsman's hand on her back, urging her ahead as well. So _this_ was why Celeborn had insisted she accompany him to Tol Galen.

When their elders retreated inside to share news, Nimloth glanced around and caught a glimpse of a sparkling lake through the trees. She looked at Dior. "Race to the lake!" And she ran. As they tripped into the cool shallows, she discovered Dior's laughter wasn't music-light like Lúthien's, but as deep and ardent as his father's.


	20. At Long Last

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's _faces_ challenge series._

* * *

**At Long Last**  
_Rapture_

They watched as she approached the gates of Mandos, her loose night-dark hair cascading over her soft grey raiment. Her eyes had held naught but grief for so long, but now tentative hope flickered in their ageless depths, drawing her away from the gardens of Lórien.

Slowly, the gates opened, and an Elf emerged, striding confidently into the sunlight. His silver hair gleamed when he turned his head to survey this new world.

Rapture transformed his stern features when he saw who awaited him; when Thingol and Melian embraced again at last, those watching cheered, and nightingales burst into song.


	21. Let There Be Light

****_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's 'Let There Be Light' challenge series._

* * *

**Enchanted**  
_Moonlight_

He saw her first by moonlight, all silver and ebony, gleaming with the light of stars in her eyes as flowers blossomed at her feet, their perfume mingling with the sweet scent of wild roses in her hair. And when she smiled he forgot everything else, all his long travels and cares and bloodstained grief.

"Tinúviel!" he cried, for her voice was sweet as a nightingale's, but she disappeared, away through the trees, and he was left alone in the darkness again. When she was gone even the sun seemed dimmed.

So he stumbled on, searching for his enchanting Tinúviel.

**.**

**Surprise**  
_Candlelight_

Nothing pleased him more than catching Lady Galadriel off her guard. Like giving her that name (which fit her far better than _Artanis_ anyway), or presenting her with unexpected flowers.

Now they were alone in the garden, the only light coming from the stars and from a candle in a nearby window, turning the fountains to molten diamond and gold. Galadriel was speaking of Nargothrond, and how happy her brother was with its progress. It was all very interesting, but Celeborn had stopped listening.

When she turned to ask him something, he leaned forward and caught her off guard again.

**.**

**Expecting**  
_Firelight_

The firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, and a warm glow on Idril's hands as they rested atop her swollen belly. Tuor watched her doze, until the baby kicked, and her eyes opened. She blinked sleepily up at him. "He is restless," she said. "More than any Elven child."

"He wants to see the world as much as we wish to see him," Tuor laughed, sitting beside her. He imagined a child with Idril's eyes and a smile bright as the sun reflected on the fountains of Gondolin.

Idril leaned against his shoulder, smiling, and closed her eyes again.

**.**

**Luminous  
**_Lamplight_

"Promise you won't tell _anyone?_" Elwing asked, clutching the carefully wrapped package nervously. It was almost too large for her to hold.

"I have already promised a dozen times," Eärendil pointed out.

"Right, of course." Elwing gently unwrapped the package, and Eärendil's breath caught in his throat. Dozens of vibrantly colored gemstones surrounded the Silmaril, bright as a star in Elwing's hands, outshining the lamp on the table. It illuminated her as well, making her hair shine and eyes sparkle.

But it's light made him nervous, too. So much had been lost for this jewel. What would Elwing sacrifice someday?

**.**

**Laughter**  
_Twilight_

If Lúthien was twilight and nightingales, Nimloth was sunshine and bluebirds. She ran where Tinúviel danced, and her weapon was a bow or spear instead of spellbinding song. Her silver hair flashed in the sunlight, and her sea-grey eyes sparkled when she laughed at Dior, which was often.

He didn't mind. He liked making her laugh, and steadfastly ignored the knowing smiles his parents exchanged with Celeborn and Galathil. He had no intention of _marrying_her.

But then she kissed him beneath a blossoming apple tree, and ran away with laughter like silver bells while he stammered and turned red.


	22. Spellbound

****_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's 'Let There Be Light' challenge series._

* * *

**Spellbound**  
_Starlight_

She had danced through the stars as Varda flung them through the inky sky, delighting in their delicate diamond light. She had wandered beneath the trees of Yavanna, marveling as they thrummed with fresh green life. She had taught the nightingales to sing.

But none of them had caught her spellbound as the tall Quendi king with hair like spun starlight and eyes that burned with the enchanted light of Laurelin and Telperion. She followed him through the tree shadows and listened to his deep voice rise in song.

Then she sang back, and caught him in _her_ love-struck spell.


	23. In the Beginning

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's 'Let There Be Light' challenge.__  
Merry Christmas! :)_

* * *

**In the Beginning…**  
_Darkness_

Darkness reigned above the plains and waters of Arda. As Aulë and Ulmo and others turned their attention to shaping the earth itself, Varda looked to the empty skies. She flung the stars like diamonds into the darkness. They filled the world with soft silver light, making the dewdrops and springs of Ulmo sparkle, and Yavanna's leaves shivered and cast dancing shadows as Manwë's breezes caressed Arda's surface.

The last stars Varda hung were a warning, the shimmering Valacirca, that all may see the silver sign of the Sickle of the Valar and know of that they were not idle.


	24. Awakening

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's "Sunlight" prompt.  
Also inspired by Adam & Eve's respective memories of awakening in John Milton's Paradise Lost _.

* * *

**Awakening**  
_Sunlight_

They woke to warmth and bright colors that dazzled their newly opened eyes. It shone in the vast, smooth expanse overhead, and illuminated the myriad colors of the world all around them.

Up they sprang, and gazed in delighted wonder at their limbs, and at each other. Some, laughing, ran and leapt upon the hills. Others found dappled reflections in quiet pools, or sat and listened to birdsong in the trees. All of them found words on their tongue, and named the trees and the birds and the sun, and each other.

They never suspected what terrors nightfall would bring.


	25. Third of the Great Wrongs

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's "transactions" challenge series._

* * *

**They Would Not Yield the Jewel**  
_Buy_

Celeborn was waiting outside the twins' nursery with a paper and a frown. "A message has come from Maedhros Fëanorion."

Elwing took it. The words were of friendship and entreaty, but the undertone was stern and threatening. The remaining sons of Fëanor wanted the Silmaril.

She remembered the fire and blood and screams the night Doriath fell, and thought of her sons sleeping just behind the door, and also of her little brothers, now long dead.

"We will not give up the Silmaril while Eärendil is at sea," she said. "Tell Maedhros this. Perhaps that will buy us some time."

**.**

**And She Sat in Sorrow**  
_Borrow_

The stars glimmered overhead, dimmed by the half moon that hovered over Sirion, casting sharp shadows and making the sea waves dance silver.

Moonlight always made her remember Doriath, and her grandfather's stories. "I saw her dancing like a dream by the enchanted Esgalduin, and flowers blossomed at her feet." Her grandmother always laughed when he waxed poetic.

Lúthien had followed Beren on his quest, and sung a tower to rubble and Morgoth to sleep. All Elwing could do was stand atop a parapet with a borrowed spyglass, scanning the empty horizon and praying for a glimpse of familiar sails.

**.**

**Knowledge of Their Oath Unfulfilled**  
_Sell_

"They will not wait for Eärendil's return," Galadriel said. Firelight glinted on her hair. "I remember their oath taking in Aman." Her skirts whispered across the floor as she turned to pace.

Elwing _wanted_ to believe what some from Gondolin were saying, that Maedhros would wait, that Maglor was honorable, that Ambarussa would follow their brothers' lead.

But none in Sirion were strangers to treachery, be it from an attack by allies in the snow or secrets sold to Morgoth. "What would you have me do?" Elwing asked, wishing (yet again) for Eärendil's presence.

Galadriel sighed. "I do not know."

**.**

**Sudden Fear had Fallen**  
_Lend_

"What are they doing?" Elros asked, standing on his toes to peer out the window. Elwing hoisted Elrond onto her hip and looked out as well. It was raining lightly, but that had not stopped all of the men (and many women) of Sirion from lending a hand to the improvements being made to their defense.

"They are making sure we are safe," Elwing said.

She watched Celeborn directing men at the base of the wall. They sought to build it higher, but there was no stone here, only wood and sand and water. And Fëanor's sons would bring fire.

**.**

**She Cast Herself Into the Sea**  
_Bequeath_

She had watched them rush the walls of Sirion, Noldor fighting Noldor now, as well as Sindar. Elves fighting Elves – how Morgoth must be laughing!

Now Maedhros sheathed his sword, holding out his hand that dripped with blood. "Give us the jewel," he demanded.

The Jewel – the Silmaril – bequeathed to Dior at Lúthien's death, and come to her through his. Elwing clutched the Nauglamír to her chest. There was but one way to end the bloodshed.

"No, wait!" Maedhros lunged, but he was too late. Elwing stepped back, and closed her eyes as the sea rushed up to meet her.

**.**

**Given Leave to Choose**  
_Gift_

The Valar had gifted them the choice, they were told. They must choose whether to be counted among Elves or Men. Eärendil, still weary after facing the Powers, looked to Elwing. He would follow her choice.

She thought of her courageous grandmother, the Elven princess who had chosen death, and how all who had known her – who had merely known _of_ her – mourned her loss. She thought of her family slaughtered in the halls of Menegroth (and her sons' uncertain fate) – and she could not imagine choosing death.

"I choose the fate of the Firstborn, for Lúthien's sake," she said.


	26. Mithrandir

Written for Tolkien_Weekly's _Natural Disasters_ challenge series.

* * *

**The Finest Rockets Ever Seen**  
_Fire_

With a sharp hiss and a loud boom, the fireworks shot into the night sky and exploded, sending showers of colorful sparks raining down on the delighted audience. Gandalf laughed and set his staff to another fuse, the hidden ring on his finger humming with power.

For kindling hearts to hope and valor and action, Narya had been entrusted to him. Entertaining hobbits was probably not what Círdan had had in mind at the time, but as Gandalf watched the Old Took laugh while holding his little bright-eyed grandson Bilbo, he could not think of a better use for it.

**.**

**From Northern Waste to Southern Hill**  
_Drought_

He sighed, looking out over the flat, empty lands stretching East from the swift currents of Anduin. They had once been lush and fertile, but harsh droughts following the destruction wrought by Sauron's forces had rendered them, as they were now known, the Brown Lands.

Legend said the Entwives had once dwelt here. Had they all been destroyed with their fields and orchards, Gandalf wondered, or had some fled?

He turned his feet east and north, thinking that he could keep an eye open as he traveled. If any Entwives survived, he would see that word got back to Fangorn.

**.**

**An Old Man in a Battered Hat**  
_Flood_

It had been a harsh winter in the north, and when spring came the snowmelt flowed into the rivers that carried it south, bringing freezing floods with them. Gandalf followed the cold currents of swollen Anduin from Mirkwood down through Wilderland and Gondor, all the way to where it spilled into the Sea under the cries of gulls.

Fishermen from Dol Amroth saw him on the shore, resting against a rock and pushing his pale blue, wide-brimmed hat back so the breeze touched his face – and then the breeze caught the hat, sending it scuttling and bouncing over the stones.

**.**

**A Back that Bent Beneath its Load**  
_Famine_

Gandalf heaved a weary sigh as he sat back and sipped sweet miruvor, listening to the music of Imladris' many waterfalls. Someone was singing tra-la-la-lally in the garden. "My blue cousins have their work cut out for them in the East," he told Elrond. "War, famine, disease, corruption. Worship of Sauron runs rampant still, in grotesque temples with ugly practices."

"Did you see either Alatar or Palando?"

"Nay. I believe they thought to search for Elves, Avari, and are probably farther east yet than even I have ventured."

"Think you they will be successful?" Elrond asked thoughtfully. Gandalf only shrugged.

**.**

**Fire and Shadow Both Defied**  
_Earthquake_

The earth quaked as the power of the White Council clashed with that of Dol Guldur. The Ringwraiths' screams filled the air as flames leapt toward the sky, nearly drowned by the howling of the wind.

Then all at once it ceased. Some great shadow lifted and vanished from the tower, and the Nazgûl scattered. The forest seemed to heave a sigh of relief, and the sun shone brightly again. Gandalf leaned against his staff, frowning as Narya's heat faded.

"That was too easy," he said to Saruman, who waved him off.

"He is weak."

"Yes, but not that weak..."

**.**

**When Evening in the Shire was Grey**  
_Hurricane_

Stormy nights always reminded him of his voyage across Belegaer. Ossë was always fond of storms; his great hurricanes often wreaked havoc on the shores of Middle-earth, and he had been in a particularly playful mood when Gandalf, still unused to his mortal frame, had been floating alone atop the waves. It had been the first time he had experienced illness of any sort, and a part of him was still annoyed with Ossë for it.

But there was no stormy rocking in Bag End. Only comfortable chairs, the smell of cooking mushrooms and pipe weed, and laughter among friends.

**.**

**Falling Like a Rain of Flowers**  
_Plague_

On the shores of the sea, Gandalf turned and looked back, seeing in his mind all the lands he had wandered and all the evil he had seen and countered – monsters, wicked Men, plagues and darkness almost impenetrable.

But there was beauty too, and he had friends yet remaining among Hobbits, Dwarves, and Men. He was sorry to leave these shores, but there was an aching weariness in his bones, and he yearned for home.

As they approached Valinor's white shores, Gandalf set his staff to his last rocket, laughing with Bilbo while the Elves, smiling indulgently, shook their heads.


	27. I Missed You

Cool air and sea spray opened up before her as Elwing stepped up to the windowsill, and the ground rushed up as she fell, but they never met. Dark hair turned to feathers, and arms to wings, and she strove with the breeze up, up into the sky, towards the stars - toward the one star that was descending from the wide reaches of night to the jewel-strewn shores of the Blessed Realm.

Eärendil left a careless trail of stardust across Vingilot's deck as he ran to catch his wife in his arms.

They spoke as one: "I missed you."


	28. Ailments

_Written for the _Ailments_ challenge series on the Tolkien_Weekly community on LiveJournal._

* * *

**Don't Go**  
_Headache_

She woke with a pounding heart and aching head from dark red dreams of frightened horses flying arrows and horrible shapes in the brush. All was quiet, the moonlight soft silver squares on the floor. Outside an owl hooted. Leaves rustled in the breeze, like a soft sleepy sigh.

Beside her, Arathorn stirred, and rolled over. "Gilraen?" His voice was rough from sleep, but his fingers gentle as they brushed her shoulder. "What is wrong, love?"

"Must you leave tomorrow?"

He sat up. "You know that I do." Strong arms engulfed her, and Gilraen sighed.

Surely everything would be fine…

**.**

**I'm Sorry**  
_Toothache_

Aragorn had been particularly fussy that day, complaining of aching gums with new teeth coming in. Gilraen had just put him to bed and settled down beside the hearth when she heard shouting outside, and moments later an urgent knock at the door.

Something dropped in her stomach as she rose to answer.

Elladan – she thought, it was hard to tell in the dark – stood there, disheveled and smeared with dirt and blood. "Gilraen," he said.

The look in his dark eyes said everything, whose blood mingled with orcs' on his chainmail. "No. No, no, no…"

"Gilraen – I'm so sorry."

**.**

**No Time**  
_Sore Throat_

There was too much to pack and no time. Gilraen could barely speak past the ache in her throat and the burning behind her eyes – but she couldn't let Aragorn see her tears. He blinked sleepily at her as she bundled him up in blankets. It was a long ride to Imladris, and it would be cold and wet as well.

Elladan and Elrohir would not let her see Arathorn's body. "Do not torture yourself, Gilraen." And anyway, they needed to leave. "The sooner we reach Imladris, the safer you will be."

Home soon faded behind them; Eriador stretched ahead.

**.**

**Slow Going**  
_Cold_

It rained all the way to Imladris, steady and cold and dreary – like the thoughts circling in her head. Gilraen huddled in her cloak, only vaguely aware of her horse's movements as it followed Elrohir's in front of her. Behind her, Elladan held Aragorn safe beneath his cloak, and behind him trailed a handful of Rangers, all there to guard Gilraen and Aragorn, to see them safely to Master Elrond.

Gilraen shivered. At home, they would have buried Arathorn by now, and raised a muddy mound over him – the only marking a Ranger's grave would receive in these dark times.

**.**

**Homesick**  
_Stomach Ache_

Elrohir fell back beside Gilraen, and pointed to small white stones by the path, almost hidden beneath mold and moss. "We are almost there," he said with a small smile. Gilraen couldn't muster one in return. Her stomach almost ached with nervousness as they made their way carefully through the mountains.

Then the valley opened before them, and she heard Aragorn's delighted gasp behind her. The sun peeked golden over the mountains; dozens of waterfalls shimmered liquid silver. Even up here Gilraen could hear someone singing – a hymn to Elbereth. The Last Homely House.

She missed her own rough cottage.

**.**

**To Be Safe**  
_Nausea_

Though the sweet miruvor did little to settle the nausea she still felt, Gilraen sipped at it slowly, mostly to stop Elrohir from casting concerned glances at her, and tried to concentrate on that Master Elrond was saying. it was something kind, about how she and Aragorn would be safe here. She glanced at her son, dozing peacefully on Elladan's lap.

"Gilraen." Elrond's fingers brushed her arm, voice apologetic. "The Enemy has been seeking the Heirs of Isildur. Your lineage must be kept secret, even from your son."

So Aragorn became Estel, and Arathorn seemed to die a second time.

**.**

**Survivor's Guilt**  
_Ear Ache_

Gilraen had heard Elven song before – Elladan and Elrohir were never able to visit the Dúnedain without being called upon to sing something. And she had heard Men's drunken songs much more often, when they raised toasts to fallen brothers long into the night, until their words slurred and their voices so off key that it made one's ears ache.

But she had never heard drunken Elves sing, until she stumbled upon Elladan and Elrohir singing slurred songs she recognized as Arathorn's favorites, beside a fountain in the garden. Elladan kept rinsing his hands in the clear water between sips.

**.**

**Regrets**  
_Hangover_

The morning after she came upon them drinking in the twilit garden, Gilraen found both Elladan and Elrohir blurry-eyed and grimacing in the kitchen, on the receiving end of a mild scolding from one of the cooks. "…drinking _all_ that Dorwinion in one evening. What were you thinking…"

"It has been many years since they were so ambushed," Elrond said at her back. Gilraen jumped, and looked up into sad, old eyes.

Gilraen spoke hesitantly. "What happened?" But what she meant was, _Who was lost?_

Elrond grimaced, and she wondered if he was as hungover as his sons. "Their mother."


	29. Grass

Written for the "Grass" challenge series on Tolkien_Weekly

* * *

**Flowers Like Stars**  
_Blade_

The sweet-smelling blades of grass tickled her face as she rolled down the hill toward the banks of the Esgalduin. Petals of pale niphredil caught and clung to her hair like the stars twinkling in the sky overhead – great diamonds, her mother said, flung into the void by Varda Elbereth when the world was formed.

Lúthien's giggles turned to a delighted squeal when her father caught her at the bottom and swung her into the air. The nightingales in the boughs overhead scattered with musical chirps of protest, and Melian laughed, her hands busy weaving fine thread into a tapestry.

**.**

**Wild Child**  
_Clump_

"Lúthien child, what have you been doing?" Though Melian tugged a comb through matted clumps of dark hair as gently as possible, she could not help but pull at it, making Lúthien wince. "You look like a wild child of the forest, rather than a princess of the Eldar."

Lúthien giggled. "I was only dancing. Daeron is learning the flute."

"With the Onodrim?" Melian teased a leafy twig out of a gnarled strand, and a leaf out of another.

When she was done, Melian braided Lúthien's hair with wild roses. "There. Now you may dance as much as you like."

**.**

**Ancient Steps**  
_Lawn_

Blankets were spread across the lawn on the banks of Esgalduin for a feast beneath the stars, lit by many colored lamps and great bonfires. Minstrels played music with the birds, on elegantly carved flutes and harps.

Lúthien darted between the blankets and slipped around dancers, giggling as they spun in wild steps first danced on the shores of Cuiviénen. She ducked between flying skirts and braids, as the dancers shouted laughing warnings to her and each other.

Then strong arms scooped her up from behind, and Lúthien shrieked with laughter, kicking and squirming as Celeborn, grinning, tickled her mercilessly.

**.**

**Wild Horses**  
_Pasture_

They clung to the branches of a tree at the edge of the forest, gazing over the wide pasture land that stretched out before them, beneath a blanket of silver stars. "What are they doing?" Daeron whispered, face half-hidden by the shadowy leaves.

Lúthien watched Beleg approach a wild horse slowly, hands outstretched. They were too far away to hear it, but Lúthien knew he was singing a quiet song to calm the stomping animal. "Taming the horses," she said.

"But why?"

"To ride them, of course, like Araw. To the Falas and the Ered Luin with messages and trade."

**.**

**War is Coming**  
_Field_

Lúthien bent over her task, embroidering white stars onto a black field, as part of her father's device. Her mother had been quiet all afternoon, and there were creases in her brow that Lúthien had never before seen. This was Thingol's standard, to be carried into battle.

"What are they, Naneth – the creatures that come from the north?"

Melian paused in her sewing, and Lúthien saw anger behind her eyes. "You know the tales of those who vanished, before Oromë called the Eldar west."

"Yes…"

"These – orcs – are their descendents…"

Lúthien shuddered, then flinched when her needle stuck her finger.

**.**

**Terror in the North**  
_Plain_

It happened almost overnight: mists appeared to twist through the trees and confuse those unfamiliar with the forests of Doriath. No one could get through without the knowledge and permission of Queen Melian, and so Doriath was cut off from the plains to the south and east, the mountains to the north, and the rivers flowing west to the sea.

Lúthien wondered at first why such a Girdle was necessary, until something dark threatened the northern borders, and stories reached them of a dark, hungry terror in the mountains..

There would be no more peace in Beleriand beneath the stars.


	30. Communication

_Written for the "Communication" challenge series on the Tolkien_Weekly LJ community._

* * *

**The Teleri Befriended Her**  
_Speech_

Elwing had learned the language of the Blessed Realm from Galadriel and Idril, but when the fishermen of Alqualondë greeted her, it felt suddenly clumsy on her tongue, and she feared that speech between them would be impossible. But when she spoke the name Elwë Singollo, their faces lit with wonder, and she found herself being ushered through the gem-strewn streets of Alqualondë to the airy, sprawling palace of Olwë – so different from Menegroth's vaulted caves.

He embraced her with tears in his eyes, unheeding of the sand and salt clinging to her damp skirts. "Child, how came you here?"

**.**

**Filled with Pity and Wonder**  
_Sign Language_

The arrival of Elwë's great-granddaughter was greeted with wonder by the people of Alqualondë, and with confusion. They wondered if her sudden arrival was a sign – and if it was, what did it herald?

Elwing barely noticed, entranced by the jewel-strewn, _open_ city, free from walls and fortifications, and filled with carefree song and laughter. None but official guards carried swords, and even they were never truly wary.

Olwë looked at her with surprise and pity when she expressed her dismay. "There is no need for walls, child, for what threat there once was is long passed over the Sea."

**.**

**They Listened to Her Tales**  
_Drawing_

They listened to her tales of Beleriand avidly and without interruption – until she tried to describe Menegroth. "It was dug into a great hillside beside the Esgalduin, and carved with the aid of Naugrim from the Blue Mountains…"

"Naugrim?" repeated Olwë's son, brow furrowing.

Elwing blushed – of course they would not know! – stammered a description. "They are the Stunted Ones, but strong and clever with their hands, and they're – hairy…?"

But in the end paper and graphite was called for, so that Elwing could attempt a clumsy drawing so that her hosts might understand what, approximately, a Dwarf looked like.

**.**

**Lonely and Afraid**  
_Body Language_

They learned quickly to speak carefully in front of Elwing, this strange young woman from across the sea. A careless word about the past or even about the sea would cause her to seemingly shrink, retreating within herself, and fleeing to the easternmost shore, where she could be found hugging slender arms to her stomach, searching the horizon for a glimpse of something from Middle-earth.

Other times she could be found at some high window looking toward the Calacirya. She said lightly she was used to watching the West, waiting for her husband. The look in her eyes spoke differently.

**.**

**Eärendil was Long Time Gone**  
_Mind Reading_

Elwing stood atop one of the towers of Olwë's palace, from which she could glimpse the Calacirya and the Sea, and felt just as she had back in Sirion – only now she strained toward both East and West for a glimpse or even a glimmer of thought. But her sons were too far away across the Sea or in Mandos, and her husband with the Valar lay beyond her reach as well.

Or perhaps she had not the power to cast her mind abroad, being only a lesser daughter of Melian the Maia and Lúthien Tinúviel, undeserving of such skill.

**.**

**Eärendil Returning Found Her**  
_Writing_

Word of Eärendil's return preceded him, through messages from Tirion, written in flowing Tengwar script that was somehow different from the letters Elwing had learned in Beleriand, though perhaps it was only the hand that drew them.

"It seems your husband has caused quite a stir in Valmar," Olwë said. "Long was he in council with the Valar."

"Then they _did_ listen to him!" They had not risked everything for nothing. Surely now the Valar would act – would march against Morgoth.

When Eärendil reached Alqualondë at last, Elwing practically flew from the palace across the gem-strewn streets to embrace him.


	31. Petrology

Written for Tolkien_Weekly's "Petrology" challenges series.

* * *

**Colors**  
_Chalk_

The best present Eärendil received on his third begetting day was a large box of chalk, dyed bright colors by Maeglin, his mother's cousin – whose smile actually reached his dark eyes when he saw Eärendil's genuine pleasure in his gift. The white stone streets of Gondolin became a canvas for all the fantastic designs a three-year-old could imagine, from smeared butterflies and dusty flowers to great birds flying through rainbows and stars over the sea. The people delighted in Eärendil's creations, and were careful not to tread upon them until the rain washed them away, and he could start anew.

**.**

**Smoke**  
_Slate_

The forges in Gondolin had been roofed and floored with slate, and walled with other dark stones – because they would be stained by the smoke anyway, Idril said. Eärendil didn't like visiting them, even with his mother; they were dark, hot, and smoky, and the smell of hot metal burned his nose. He clung to her hand and cringed away from a heavy hammer pounding away at steel, hardly able to hear her words over the noise and bustle.

Neither could anyone else, as she swiftly outlined a secret plan with a soot-streaked elf with thoughtful eyes and tight lips.

**.**

**Carving**  
_Marble_

Eärendil watched his father watch one of Gondolin's best sculptors chip away with delicate chisels at a nearly-finished statue of a beautiful woman with long hair that flowed like water around her shoulders – she was Uinen, and the sculpture was a commissioned gift for the anniversary of Tuor and Idril's marriage.

Tuor laughed and said he wished he could create such beauty – but his efforts at shaping stone were clumsy, at best.

Eärendil had no interest in metal or stone. He much preferred to carve little wooden ships and set them sailing across the fountains, pretending they were the sea.

**.**

**Inheritance**  
_Obsidian_

It wasn't like any knife Eärendil had ever seen before – blacker than the night sky, and with a blade sharper than steel could ever be. "Do not touch the blade," Tuor warned, seeing Eärendil run his fingers over the carved wooden handle.

"What is it?"

"A stone, called obsidian." Tuor set aside his book and leaned his arms on the table. "Used by the Green Elves, when they can get it. They don't use steel like the Noldor."

"Oh." Eärendil regarded the knife again. "Where did you get it?"

Tuor sighed, suddenly sad. "Annael, my foster-father, gave it to me."

**.**

**Memory**  
_Granite_

As a child, Eärendil liked nothing more than to race through the vaulted halls of his grandfather's palace, his footsteps echoing on the polished granite floors. He dodged armored guards and elegant ladies, and leapt into laughing Turgon's arms to be spun around and tossed high into the air, and for that one moment it felt as though he were flying, weightless and breathless.

Later, on the deck of soaring Vingilot, he saw the ruins of Gondolin, the charred, broken remains of that once-great palace, now quiet and slowly being overgrown, and wished Turgon were alive to see his star.


	32. Moving Foward

_Written for Tolkien_Weekly's _trees_ drabble challenge series._

* * *

**The World is Broken**  
_Roots_

He stood at the edge of the broken world, staring at the roiling, angry waves and thinking of the lands that lay now beneath. Of the once-bright cities and once-tall mountains, ruined and broken. Of the once-mighty trees that had been torn from the ground. Not even the thick, strong roots of Hirilorn had been enough to withstand the wrath of the Valar.

Daeron turned away, fingers itching for his harp, mind already crafting words to sing of his home and its beautiful lands so that he (and anyone who heard) would never forget that which was lost now forever.

**.**

**We Will Rebuild**  
_Trunk_

Círdan stooped to pick up a piece of driftwood. The beaches – jagged, rocky things – were strewn with the stuff. Once, the wood he held had been a part of a mighty tree, with a thick, sturdy trunk that could endure any storm, except war.

All along the beaches Elves and Men wandered, gathering driftwood for fuel, or to build temporary homes, until stone could be brought from farther inland to build proper cities and harbors.

The Valar thought those who refused to follow them West unwise. Gil-galad and others – Galadriel, Oropher (and Círdan himself) – were determined to prove them wrong.

**.**

**Shadow in the East**  
_Twig_

As the world crumbled, Morgoth's once-great lieutenant slunk away, heading eastward. For many years he wandered, passing through the great forests of Eriador and Rhovanion, without even a broken twig to mark his passing.

At last he came to a land walled by mountains, like broken teeth jutting into the sky. And the mountain of fire: the perfect forge where he would craft his most powerful weapons. It would take many decades in the count of Men and Elves to gather his forces and fortify this land properly, but Sauron was patient.

Eventually, he would succeed where Melkor had failed.

**.**

**Unity**  
_Bark_

Wood shavings and stray pieces of bark crunched under Gil-galad's feet as he walked, examining the lumber being prepared by both Edain and Laiquendi. It would then go to build homes and ships and other necessary things, while the wood not turned into lumber would be used for fuel.

Rebuilding was harder, perhaps, than anyone had expected it to be. They were a motley group, who had chosen to remain, united mostly by stubbornness and shared grief.

And hope. Morgoth was defeated; now they could build without fear of balrogs and dragons coming to destroy everything with fire and hatred.

**.**

**Looking Eastward**  
_Sap_

"Well, what did you find?" Lindir asked as Elrond dropped to the ground. "How far does the forest stretch?"

Elrond wiped his sap-sticky hands on his tunic and smiled. "Far beyond what I can see," he said. "It is as Círdan said: a squirrel could likely pass from here to the Hithaeglir without ever touching the ground."

The sound of music suddenly reached them, but not Elvish song. "Hop along, my little friends…" Elrond blinked, and the strangest little man danced into view, with a feather in his hat and bright yellow boots, followed by at least a dozen rabbits.

**.**

**New Kingdoms  
**_Branch_

It didn't take long for the Elven groups to start branching out, heading east through Eriador and beyond.

Celeborn stripped small branches from a longer limb to make a walking stick as he listened to Celebrimbor talk with other smiths about settling near the western entrance of Khazad-dûm. Galadriel sat nearby, also listening—with a glint in her eyes that Celeborn recognized.

Their conversation later went as expected. Celebimbor was a craftsman, not a leader. Someone would need to make sure the settlement didn't fall apart when he lost interest.

Celeborn sighed. Noldor and Dwarves. Wonderful. "When do we leave?"

**.**

**The Right Choice**  
_Leaf/Leaves_

Elros crouched by the pale sapling already being called Nimloth by most, and brushed his fingers lightly over the tiny silver-green leaves just starting to unfurl. It was a gift from the Elves of Eressëa, who had placed the seedling carefully into Elros's hands, so that he, as king, could plant it.

Elves were very fond of symbolic action. Especially those who dwelt in the Blessed Realm.

But he didn't mind. Seeing Nimloth grow and flourish in his island's soil beneath his care was like an affirmation that he had made the right choice, in spite of all his doubts.

**.**

**Watching the World Turn**  
_Crown_

Vingilot's sails swelled with the winds of heaven, leaving stardust rippling in her wake. Eärendil gazed over the railing at the world below. The lands he had known were broken and sunk beneath the sea, but new kingdoms were springing up like new saplings in ancient forests as he watched.

Could he be blamed if he watched Númenor and Lindon with the most interest? Elros bore one crown; Elrond served another, each doing more to shape the future of Middle-earth than perhaps they realized.

He wondered what they thought, when they looked up on clear evenings to see his star.


End file.
